Fall To Pieces
by Gene Kelly
Summary: [RWHG] It's the night of graduation. She should be happy. But there she is, drowning in her precious illusions, waiting for some kind of Prince Charming to arrive. [ONE-SHOT]


A/N: Just a little RW/HG one-shot that was the result of a very interesting prom night...

* * *

**It was rather cold.** Much too cold for a stroll around the grounds, let alone aimlessly loitering in the bleak and silky darkness of the Quidditch pitch. 

But you remain where you're standing; your feet glued to the moist grass, although your entire body is swaying like a buoy in a turbulent sea.

Your vision is hazy and your mind feels as though it's been smashed into a blender. Your heart is aching and spastically pounding in sync and you wonder, possibly, **if it could leap out of your chest.**

You lower yourself to your feet, then flop onto your back, breathe in the stillness of the air and shut your eyes. Your bottle still furiously clutched in hand, your eyes roll to the back of your head. The grass is saturated and dew clings to each blade, but you could care less.

_Maybe this is what it feels like to nearly be dead. _

The castle is glowing, humming and buzzing with laughter and slow smiles, pairs of intoxicated lips crashing into willing cheeks. The booze is freely flowing like golden water from the Fountain of Youth. You normally wouldn't dare touch a drop of it, but the glass bottle of Firewhiskey has refused to leave the comfort of your warm hand.

You are alone and though you've been alone before, you will never demolish your burning loathing for total isolation…Your thoughts wander to the irony of your location. You'd always been terribly afraid of heights. Flying called for complete trust, **unbreakable trust** that you would not allow yourself to fall. And you never liked falling, letting go.

They never knew, but as the years passed, you'd built a wall. Call it a self-defense mechanism. It was like the automatic clock on an atomic bomb.

Unstoppable.

You'd never really known why you'd constructed this brick fortress, but it had never disappeared, its iron and chain fences fiercely protecting your bleeding heart, threatening to slit the throat of any enemy who dared to attack. Maybe that's what you got for being so book smart. Common sense always conquered impulse.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration of sorts. It was the last night of school, the ultimate and final year of education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Initially, you'd been quite relieved.

You'd been running this solo race for so long, that you'd forgotten the location of the finish line. And this great ball of sentimental excitement and longing had welled up in your throat, desiring to roll off the tip of your tongue and form into words.

But then you'd seen **him**, his flaming mane of hair so dreadfully obvious. And she'd been all over him, her hip bones seductively pressing against his pelvis, that coy grin of his challenging his amused smirk.

And you'd somehow known that she'd accomplished her mission and that he was gone, hook, line and sinker. You couldn't compete with something like that. It was worthless.

_And it all boiled down to this moment._

Because somehow you knew he'd wander outside. You just didn't expect him to be alone…Unfortunately, you weren't sure if that observation was a bad thing or a good thing.

Without a word or a wave of acknowledgement, he takes the vacant spot next to you. He stares out into the distance and you lazily open one eye, then the other. You stare at the disheveled appearance of his shaggy hair, the crinkles in his robe and squish the urge to fix the dual displays of disorder.

"Are you coming back inside?" he quietly asks.

Is that…concern in his voice? Or was it annoyance? Or maybe both? You're too far-gone to concentrate or comprehend the hidden subtext behind his inquiry.

So you nod, your body suddenly limp like a butchered fish, though you can't shake away the feeling of vertigo.

He gazes directly at you now, his eyebrows knitting together in slight confusion and alarm. It's just too cute.

Thus, you have to inwardly laugh, secretly wishing you could jump out the window of your locked tower, wishing that you could touch his hand and win him over with every slurred and drunken word you say.

"You all right Mione?"

You shut your eyes again, his voice like your own drunken lullaby.

"I hate it when you call me that."

**A pause.**

"Oh. Right. Sorry Mione. Er-I mean Hermione."

You wave the issue away, an idiotic smile creeping onto your glossy lips. Why, oh why, did her Prince Charming have to turn back into a frog?

The smile instantly vanishes as a slight breeze commences to caress your shoulders and face.

"I'm so cold, Ron…it's so cold," you softly moan.

And you truly are freezing from the inside out, you envision your bones rattling and clanking together as the mercilessly draft teases your skin. You look over at him again; eyes wide open and sit yourself up, hugging yourself, wanting nothing more than to raise your body temperature.

He sighs and makes his way over to you, enveloping your smaller frame into his lean arms, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other rubbing your arm.

He can probably feel the large goose bumps beneath your black robes. And you gently place your forehead against his chest, your head still _spinning_ and _revolving_, dancing like the wheels of a sports car as it flies down an empty highway.

Is it possible that bliss can begenerated without a single word?

"Are you feeling any better?" he whispers. His lips are much to close to your ear, you can practically taste his scent.

You wonder ifhe'd ever work up the nerve to play a game of risk with Lady Luck.

And you think for a moment, honestly and deeply think about the question. You snuggle into his embrace, tell yourself that this madness will all vanish away in a few more hours and you can pretend this never even happened.

You're burning to smash your lips against his own, make it so that both of your limbs collide with **sound and fury**, zealous and relentless passion. Because once, _just this once_, you're starting to believe that you're willing to let go...gaze at the unforgiving ground...and leap without ever knowing where you will land.

You raise your head and notice that you're so close to him, you can see the tiny differences between each freckle, losing yourself in the unreadable expression of those eyes.

And you reach up, gathering the last of your effort, and brush your lips across his cheek, awaiting his surprised reaction.

**Pandora's box has been opened.**


End file.
